


Your Neck Like Graffiti

by coricomile



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It stings, is the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Neck Like Graffiti

It stings, is the problem.

Kurt presses the tips of his fingers to the purpling bruise at his collar and wrinkles his nose at the sharp shock of pain that slips all the way down to his stomach. It throbs in time with his heartbeat as he pulls away, dull but never actually gone.

Also, it's ugly.

There are three marks in three separate sizes around his throat like a collar, purple blue and going yellow at the edges. The one in the middle sits comfortably in the hollow of his throat, like a locket would if he ever felt the inclination to wear one. He looks cheap, is how he looks, and he’s going to have words with Puck in the morning.

So he wakes up earlier and does his usual routine before dabbing foundation swiped from Brittany over the worst of it. The foundation is liquid and a shade too light, but it’s all he has, and he’ll be damned if he goes out the way he is now. The middles of the bruises show through a light covering, and a heavy covering turns him an unfortunate shade of orange. In the end, they're still visible under the beige collar of his favorite shirt, but he feels less exposed. Less open.

Mercedes greets him at the door, her eyebrows rising as she catches a flash of hickey. Kurt tilts his chin up and tries his best to ignore the heat flooding his cheeks.

"Do you have a problem?" He asks, brushing by into the air conditioning of the front hall. It cools his overheated skin, makes him feel less summer sick.

"Oh, honey," Mercedes says, shaking her head, "you're a mess." Kurt very carefully ignores her smile and keeps his head high.

It shouldn't be a surprise when the slush hits him in the face, but it is every single time. He gasps at the shock of cold, eyes squinting shut as cherry syrup melts on his tongue. A hand lands on his shoulder, and he's being led away. He follows blindly, wiping at his face with the backs of his wrists.

"I'm going to kill them." It's Puck's voice, and Kurt opens his eyes, regretting it as soon as melting slush drips into them. He wipes it away with his fingers and blinks away what's left.

"That's fantastic," Kurt says dryly before spitting the excess syrup in his mouth into the sink. "Can you watch the door so I can wash my face first instead?"

Puck ignores him, which is entirely unsurprising. He takes Kurt's bag and sets it against the wall, reaching for the hem of Kurt's shirt. Kurt doesn't fight it when the soft cotton lifts up and off, frowning when Puck discards it on the floor. There’s a stain crawling across the front in a slow creep, binding with the fibers. It’s a lost cause, and Kurt can’t even feel the same sort of sadness that he usually does. It seems- Pointless.

Puck’s hand is warm and large on the back of his neck, guiding him to lean down in front of the sink. The water is too cold, freezing against the backs of his ears and the tender patch of bruise on his shoulder, but Kurt keeps his mouth shut, fingers curling around the porcelain uselessly.

Puck’s thumb is resting on the knob of his spine, pressing and letting up in an even rhythm as he runs his free hand through Kurt’s hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. It feels nice. Safe maybe. Puck’s mouth on his shoulder feels nice, too, familiar and hot.

“Stop that,” Kurt says when he feels the sharp edge of Puck’s teeth against his skin. He lifts his head from the sink, dripping water over his shoulders and the floor. He looks like a mess, but Puck just keeps grinning, his fingers still curled around Kurt’s neck, pulling him back in. “I look like a- Like a _whore_.”

“You look like mine,” Puck says against Kurt’s jaw, mouth tracking traces of water.

The bell rings and Puck steps back. He pulls his sweatshirt off and hands it over. Kurt has a backup Versace polo in his locker. He eyes the faded MicKinley high logo and thinks about the bruises and the bullies.

In class, he tugs the hood over his head and presses his face to the shoulder. It smells like Puck. Mercedes looks at him from across the room and smiles. Kurt tucks his hands into the sweater’s sleeves and wipes at what little foundation is left on his neck. It was useless, anyway.


End file.
